Has it been this long already? I suppose it has.
Something sad... well... they're all sad to a point I suppose. Oh well.
Oh yes, and before I forget, thank you for reading; it makes me smile. And I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters just incase you thought I did.
It is Russia's turn, da?
He had a bird now.
Little and ruffled, settling inside his palms and wrapped in his scarf. He didn't feel alive; perhaps it was just too cold.
A lot of people said that.
His gloved thumb stroked the top of its head and he felt a tinge of pain when it lolled slightly in the direction of his caresses.
Perhaps his neck had been broken.
Why didn't you come for warmth, little bird? Why didn't you just come to me?
He found this was the problem most of the time. It probed his mind especially as he sat staring at the bird that now lay on his desk, which already had a large world map strewn across it. He checked his wings… left then right, holding them out perpendicular to his little body.
Even when trying to be gentle, as he pulled the right wing out one of the gray coloured feathers twisted off, landing silent on his desk: across central Europe.
How fragile… you must be…
The feather was inspected; the bird was probably of the pigeon variety. There were a lot of them in Moscow. Of course most of them had fled because of the weather, but this one must have been injured already.
As the feather twirled between his large fingers, he looked beyond it to the worn map.
The feather really did… remind him of everyone.
England and his London bombings, America and his wayward economy, Korea and his fake hospitality, China and his powerful façade…
They weren't unlike this feather; this bird.
Each were so easily broken because they chose to carry their own burdens, dig their own graves.
Slowly, he picked off another feather having to use force this time, and laid it on the map. He picked off three more.
Gray, black tufts of the bird were scattered around the animal after a while. He took his time, inspecting each feather as it floated to meet the rest.
You've had your flights…
He looked at the bird.
You've made your conquests…
He looked at England.
The entire world has been searched and scoured…
He looked at Europe.
There's no reason to fly anymore… is there, bird?
He cocked his head this way and that, curious. Each part that made him up was as easily pulled apart. Almost all of the nations were covered by the pieces. Drops of blood here and there, dropping from their tips.
By nightfall, all of the bird's feathers lay about; some covering Northern America and others clouding the Middle East.
It was sickly looking, the bird. Little spots of blood in places, and crumpled up onto itself.
Smiling, Russia took the now flightless animal into his arms, cradling it against his chest.
Sweet bird…
He started in Russian.
If you are the world and I have torn all the pieces from you, what are you now?
Quietly he blew all the feathers off the map, letting them float in the air one last time.
Little world, if only you had been in my arms sooner.
He opened a drawer in his desk.
Little world, your pieces are gone but despair not. I will be all the pieces for you. You need not fly, for we are all together.
The bird now safely stowed, he clicked his office door behind him.
Little bird, why didn't you just… come to me?
I am humble towards your thoughts. Thank you.